


Learning How to Love You

by CelesteFitzgerald, rufusrant



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Art Teacher Ringo, Band Director George, Colleagues to Lovers, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/rufusrant
Summary: Richard Starkey arrives at his new art teacher job with boundless optimism and passion— particularly for the mysterious band director.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 47
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to our first collaboration with _both_ of us as writers! 
> 
> celeste writes george's POV and rufus writes ringo's. neither of us are british, so all probable mistakes about their school system are purely on us. enjoy! <3

At last, near lunch, Richard finished decorating the studio. He stuck portraits on the wall, restocked the old acrylics and watercolours, and Brian had had bookshelves specially fitted in the cabinet for all his art books. John came to fetch him when he was adding stickers to his schedule. 

“Come now, ye still like these?” He picked up the sheet of sparkling stars. 

“This way it’s nicer to look at,” Richard stuck a gold one to the edges of where his name was printed. “You want one?”

John snorted. So Richard kept mum about the green one that had slipped onto John’s hand as they made their way to the canteen. He didn’t even notice it as he took out his wallet to count his bills. 

“Don’t worry, they’ve got yer beans.”

Richard pretended to swoon with relief. The bell rang when they entered, and the students milling the doors with trays bowed their heads. 

“Afternoon Mister Lennon!”

“Yo. Say hello to Mister Starkey,” John instructed. “Call him Sir Richard and he’ll teach you the seven wonders of MS Paint.”

This earned them a fair amount of giggles. “That and many more,” Richard added. “Hey guys. Hope ta see you in class!”

“Afternoon Mister Starkey!” came the chorus. An even bigger smile broke out on Richard’s face as he looked at all these students. They were even nicer than he thought. 

“Now bog off, it’s lunchtime,” John shooed them all. “ ‘member yer  _ Gatsby _ books tomorrow, yeah?”

Some of the younger-looking students groaned, but still waved before they left. Richard joined John in the queue and reached for his own wallet, but pulled out two empty trouser pockets. 

“Ah shit.”

“I’ll hold yer place in line,” John offered.

“But the students?”

John simply grinned and shooed him like he did with the kids at the door. Richard then hurried to the second floor staff room. He hadn’t yet settled into his new desk in the hectic morning, so he’d left it in the lounge while he helped himself to a biscuit. He flung the door open and ran in, only to then stop completely in his tracks. 

In front of him at the table sat a man with a glorious dark head of hair that went slightly past his shoulders, in the middle of eating prata and curry from a takeaway wrap. Propped against a water bottle was a phone playing a _ Monty Python _ episode. 

He scowled when he turned to look at Richard, but dear  _ god _ were his eyes so deep-set and brown. Richard felt a little embarrassed then. Thank goodness he then spotted his bag on the floor next to this man’s chair.

“So sorry to disturb you.” He smiled. “But my bag’s next to yer foot down there.”

“Oh,” The man softened as he reached for the strap and lifted it out carefully. Richard moved forward to take it from him, but the man immediately placed it on the table and returned to watching the skits. 

  
Richard was a little disappointed. This was obviously his cue to just grab his wallet and run, but this man’s face was truly a work of art. There was a very subtle softness to his sharp features. His slender fingers looked like those of a string musician as he peeled the prata into pieces and spooned them with curry. 

“Thank you,” he nodded, hands on his bag. “Richard Starkey, by the way.”

* * *

George was hungry. He’d missed the last minute of dialogue on the show. And yet, this unfamiliar man— Richard —was still here. After the morning he’d had, he’d love nothing more than to shove his earbuds deeper into his ears, but something about Richard’s warm smile held him back. 

Sighing, he hit pause and tugged the earbuds out. “ ’m George.” 

“Jus’ George?” 

George huffed out a tiny laugh. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?” 

“Nah.” To George’s surprise, Richard pulled up a chair. “That looks good,” he said, nodding to the curry. 

“Well, ’s mine,” George said a bit harsher than he meant to. 

But Richard just burst out laughing. “I’m not stealing yer food, don’t worry. Not sure I could handle it, anyway.” 

George almost asked him what he meant before remembering that the minutes were ticking past, and he still had twenty minutes left in this episode. “I don’t wanna keep ye here,” George said, reaching for his headphones. 

“Oh— right.” Richard slid his chair back and stumbled to his feet, bag across his shoulder. “See ya ‘round...unless you’d like to join us?” 

“Who’s us?” 

“My mate John, the english geek. I’m sure he’d love the extra company.” 

If anyone else had made the suggestion, George would have considered it pity for the “cranky old loner,” but Richard seemed like he genuinely wanted his company. It made it harder to turn him down. “Thanks, but I’ll stick to me show. And I’ve had enough loud noises for the day ‘thout puttin’ up with the screams in the canteen.” 

“Ah. Got some troublemakers in yer classes?” 

“Not quite. But when you’ve got trumpets and saxes wailing in yer ears all morning, I think you’re due for some peace and quiet.” 

Richard’s eyes lit up, and George was struck by how blue they were. “You’re the band director?” 

“The one and only. What ‘bout you? Ye new here?” 

“Yeah.” Richard smiled. “Thought that was obvious.” 

Shrugging, George fiddled with a piece of his prata. “So many faces ‘round here, they all start to blur together, y’know?” 

“Guess so.” Richard made for the door at last, then paused. “For the record, I don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ yer face anytime soon.” 

The prata fell back onto its wrap. George tried to sputter out a response, but Richard was gone before he could. Shaking his head and muttering to himself, George reached for his water bottle to get something cold to calm himself down— completely forgetting that the bottle was holding his phone up. 

George jumped as the phone smacked flat against the table, then groaned. Thank god Richard wasn’t there to see this. 

* * *

Thankfully John and the empty space he was fiercely guarding were only second in line to the dinner lady when Richard barrelled back in. 

“Christ, ye went to Timbuktu for that?”

“Nooooo,” Richard fetched a tray from the bottom counter. “I was—”

“What’ll it be,” the dinner lady said gruffly. Richard bounced on his feet for the first time in months as he and John collected their sandwiches and milk, and were then finally secluded in the staff section.

“You were sayin’?” John said. “You didn’t get dripped on by the air-con, did ye?”

“Uh, no,” Richard fished his straw in and out of the carton to busy his hand. “I met someone. What do you know ‘bout…. George?”

John surprisingly lit up. “Oh, I love him! He’s the greatest!”

_ “Really?” _

“Of fuckin’ course. Hell, ‘e was  _ my _ teacher when I was here. Now he used to row with me when I cursed in me essays, but never once snitched on me to Mimi. Good ol’ Mister Martin. Though I probably  _ am _ the reason why he won’t teach the Juniors no more—”

“Wait, no,” Richard laughed. “Not  _ that _ George.”

John then went deadly silent. 

“I meant the… the  _ younger _ one. Ya know, the band director—”

John burst into loud, hysterical giggles. A group of students holding a science board dropped their project as they passed by.

“What??  _ What???” _ Richard panicked. 

“YOU MEANT  _ HARRISON?” _

Richard had no clue what this meant. George had seemed perfectly nice to him, albeit a tad icier than the milk in his carton. 

“Oh my God, ye  _ talked _ to him? And he  _ talked back??” _ John wheezed as he tore open his own milk. “Congrats.”

“For— what for?”

“Keepin’ yer head.”

Richard now had  _ double _ no clue what this meant. “He seemed fine,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Jus’ introduced meself, that’s all.”

John only snorted.

“And he was rather fit.”

John snorted out all his milk. 

Richard was then subjected to a long lecture about why chatting up Mister George Harrison, Band Director, was as good as a goose chase. Most of it which he found ludicrous, and because John started ranting on how _Monty Python_ wasn’t even that good anyway. Other reasons included how annoyingly scowly he was, how much spicy food he ate, and did he mention he was a Grumpy Little _Introvert?_ Poor Extroverted Richard would have his heart in pieces by the end of the week. 

Maybe it was good that both of them had classes to teach after lunch. Richard certainly could focus on something other than the marvellousness of George’s striking features. His first class were seniors who were confused to where his predecessor had gone, but warmed up to him the second he allowed them to listen to music while they worked. His next class were Juniors who monopolised his sheets of stickers when he tasked them to create name tags. He ran out by the time his next Juniors came in, so instead he assigned portraits. 

“Who are we s’posed to draw, sir?” one of the girls asked. 

“Anyone! Draw yourself if you like; I’ll give you a mirror to use.”

“Can we draw footballers, sir?” asked one boy.

“Of course ye can!”

“But what if I wanna draw One Direction?”

“All five of ‘em? Go right ahead! I love yer ambition!”

It went better than he thought. The students went silent with concentration, sketching eagerly or looking up good references to use. Richard was just about to take a seat at his desk when one of the boys raised his hand.

“Alright, lad?”

“Who are you gunna draw, sir?”

“Me?” Richard looked around, as if a prepared model were in the room ready for him. 

“Aren’t you gonna make one too?”

“I’m yer teacher,” Richard jokingly pretended to huff. “I don’t gotta do me own homework, do I?”

“But who would you draw?” asked another girl. “D’you like One Direction?”

“Now that was a while ago, but I probably wouldn’t go fer all five.”

“Would ye draw yourself?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t see any productions of me mug.”

“But what does  _ your _ art look like?” challenged the boy. His eyebrows waggled in a way that made Richard chuckle. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll do one. But no hopes up, ‘cause I’ll get someone  _ handsome _ to pose, yeah?” and the whole class laughed. 

It wasn’t like he was lying. In fact he already had the perfect model in mind— but every time he passed the band room it was exploding with music. That was the Number One clue that walking in  _ anyway  _ would cause a wobbly. The band was still going strong after school and after Richard had taken his time with tea. The promise to have a handsome portrait done by the time they came back next week hung over his head like a particularly heavy painting.

It was four whole days till Friday afternoon before he was lucky. Brian had commandeered his studio to be converted into the reception area for the parents after Saturday’s Winter Concert. Richard had spent the day snipping snowflake chains and spray-painting the school logo onto styrofoam snowmen with the students. Old Miss Rachel from housecraft had even dropped by during the last class with a tray of cookies, of which Richard was mobbed of in an instant. 

“Stop! Hold yer horses!” Richard set the tray on his desk. “Everyone line up!”

The hungry Juniors did as they were told, as all children do when chocolate chips were involved. He handed out one to each student, and then saved one for himself. But then there was still one left, so Richard checked that no one had gone to the loo before discreetly wrapping it in a napkin. When the day ended Richard tidied up the tables and left to get his tea— past a silent band room. 

Richard’s heart soared. The lights were still bright through the windows at the top. He was then so relieved that he hadn’t eaten the spare cookie in his pocket. He dashed up to the band room’s doors, knocked, pushed them open—

And was greeted by a sonic boom. 

* * *

Finally, George felt like the Senior Band was making some progress. The Giroux piece had already sounded messy before winter holiday, and the break had only made them sloppier. Not that George could blame them, really. What child - or adult, for that matter - would want to spend New Year’s Day  _ practicing? _ The sudden improvement the day before the concert was a breath of fresh air. 

Until a certain new teacher decided to burst into the room just as they were starting their final run-through of the piece. And cling to the nearby mark tree in shock. And trip over his own two feet, sending both himself and the percussion instrument hurtling towards the floor. 

The students pulled their instruments away from their mouths to spin toward the loud  _ clang _ behind them. A few chimes from the mark tree tore loose from their strings and rolled across the floor. 

Whispers quickly escalated to gasps and to a very loud “What happened?” 

Sighing heavily, George set down his baton. He was about to head to the back of the room and deal with Richard as discreetly as possible, but Richard leapt to his feet before he could step off the podium. Richard’s cheeks were bright red, and they grew redder as the whole room stared at him. 

With a shaky hand, he reached into his pocket and held up a pile of crumbs. “I um… I brought ye a cookie.” 

After a minute of trying to restore order, George gave up and dismissed them. He had already held them a couple minutes after the final bell, he shouldn’t hold them much longer. He stuffed his scores into his folder and dropped it off in his office before checking on the mark tree - and Richard. 

“Alright?” George said to Richard, who had replaced the cookie crumbs in his hands with the loose bars from the instrument. 

He winced. “ _ I’m _ fine - but god, I’m sorry about yer metal...thing.” 

“It’s fine,” George said, only half meaning it. “Won’t take too long to fix. But what the hell-” he broke off when he noticed a couple students standing nearby. “What on earth are ye doing here? You didn’t come down here just for a cookie, did you?” 

Richard scratched his ear with his free hand. “Not  _ just _ the cookie. I wanted to ask ye somethin’—” 

“Mister Harrison?” Natalie stared up at him, a trombone case in her hands and a handful of whispering onlookers right behind her. “Is your boyfriend coming to our concert?” 

“...Uhhhhhhh.” George’s brain shut down. “He’s… he’s not…” 

“I’d love to go to the concert!” Richard piped up. 

“ _ What? _ ” George snapped. “He’s  _ not _ my boyfriend.” 

“But he brought you a cookie,” Natalie said just as Richard slapped a hand over his own mouth. Evidently his brain had finally caught up with his voice. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” George insisted. “He’s a new teacher here.” 

Richard, who had finally composed himself, offered Natalie his hand. His bright attitude softened the atmosphere, and within a minute he sent her and her friends on their way. Based on the way the kids giggled amongst themselves as they left, George would be dealing with the repercussions for a while. 

George shut the door behind the last student. Then he whirled around on Richard. “Seriously, what the  _ fuck _ are ye doing here?” 

“ ’m sorry,” Richard said, “ ’m a million times sorry.” 

“You’d better be. You broke an instrument the day before my concert, stopped our rehearsal, and now half the school’s gonna think we’re dating.” 

Richard clutched the chimes in his hands. “I’ll help you fix this. Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it.” 

Rubbing his temples, George considered the proposal. It wasn’t like Richard could break it twice. Could he? 

George gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Fine. Wait here, I’ll grab the string.” 

When George returned with the string, Richard had laid the chimes out on the ground in order. “Alright,” George said as he unrolled some from the spool, “I’ll measure out the string, you tie them on.” 

“What kinda knot?” 

“The kind that won’t make me have ta kill you if they fall off during the concert.” 

“...” 

George sighed. “Relax. These things are light, they ain’t gonna fall off. Honestly, I don’t know how you knocked them off in the first place. Were ye  _ trying _ to break it?” 

“God, no, I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off when he looked at George’s grin. “Oh. You’re messin’ with me.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

“So you’re not gonna kill me?” 

“Nah. If I killed you, who’d bring me cookies?” 

“Still not me.” Richard pointed to the bin where he had dumped the crumbs.” 

“Eh. ‘A’ for effort.” 

Despite being the reason George was in this mess in the first place, Richard wasn’t too bad a companion. His knots were solid and he worked fast. They even made amicable conversation while they worked. George learned that Richard was the new art teacher, and that he was even a bit of a percussionist himself. 

A few minutes later, George ran his finger down the line of repaired chimes and smiled when it held together. “Perfect. Now, are you gonna tell me what brought you here, or are you gonna keep apologizing and avoiding my question?” 

“Oh! Right. I was wonderin’ if you could help me out with an art project.” George listened patiently as Richard rambled through a tale of stickers and name tags and portraits that was only halfway comprehensible. 

“...so anyway, they suckered me into doing a portrait of me own.” 

“So, what then?” George said. “You want me to hold a mirror fer you while you draw yer face?” 

“No.” Richard’s cheeks turned pink. “I’d like you to be my model.” 

George stared at him. “Sorry,  _ what? _ ” 

“I-it won’t take long. I’ll work fast, promise. But you have a very pleasant face an’ I’d like to capture it.” 

This had to be some kind of practical joke. Maybe it was a caricature and George would arrive at school next week to see posters of his pointy face and protruding ears plastered all over the walls. “Why  _ me? _ ” 

Richard looked down and played with his hands. “Well, I haven’t met many people here yet, and I figure y’know how to appreciate art. But if you don’t wanna, I understand.” 

And now George had made him frown. He barely knew this man, but seeing his cheerful face twisted downward tugged at his heartstrings. George sighed. “It really won’t take long?” 

Richard brightened up instantly. “Not at all! We could head to my studio and do it right now if you like.” 

“I’m, uh, kinda busy. Y’know, with the concert tomorrow and all.” 

“Oh — right, right.” Richard tapped a finger against his chin. “What ‘bout after? Ya got plans then?” 

“You’re gonna drive out here just to draw me for half an hour, then drive back home?” 

“No, I’ll be at the concert, remember?” 

“Oh.” George hadn’t thought he was serious. “I guess that would work.” 

They chatted for a bit longer as George packed up, then he bid Richard farewell. As he walked out to the car, his cheeks flushed bright pink against the snow. 

Must have been a particularly cold day. That’s all. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read/commented on chapter 1! We're thrilled that people are enjoying reading this, because we're having _tons_ of fun writing it! We hope you enjoy chapter 2 <3

The Winter Concert, Richard had been told, was easily the swankiest event at Abbey Road Academy (next to the prom). So he was thoroughly disconcerted when John pulled up at his flat in jeans, a jacket and a top with _I’M WITH STUPID_ **_→_ **written on it.

And his two sons. 

“Say hi to Uncle Ritchie!” John bellowed over his car radio. 

“Hi Uncle Ritchieeeeee!” said Jules, leaning out over John’s lap. Sean somehow stayed asleep in his baby seat in the back. Richard rounded the car to sit next to him. 

“Hey Jules.” And then he laughed, seeing the matching _I’M WITH STUPIDER_ ** _←_** shirt splashed all up on his front. “Aren’t we going to a concert?”

“Dress codes are for squares,” John said, and sped off as soon as Richard had shut the door. “Plus Yoko’s out workin’ late tonight so I gotta take us all—”

“For ice-cream!” Jules cheered.

“Not if you don’t sit down you’re not!” 

Jules immediately strapped himself into his seat. Sean let out a snore from where he was buckled in with a little plush turtle. Richard suddenly felt stiff and stale in his suit. Thank God he’d opted not to wear his tie. 

“Sweet baby Jesus, please tell me yer not allergic to ice-cream.”

“What? No!” Richard pulled away from his starched collar at last and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I probably can’t come though.”

“Oh c’mon, really?” John scoffed. “Where am I takin’ ye, Jules?”

“SWENSENS!”

“And what’re we gettin’?”

“Everythin’ we want!” 

Richard giggled. Jules never failed to brighten his mood. 

“What could ye possibly wanna do instead of eat some—”

“I’m drawin’ the band director.”

The car damn near tipped over from halting at the red light. Jules let out a yelp as he grabbed his seatbelt and Sean muttered baby-talk as he was jolted awake. And Richard clung onto the bar for dear life. 

“YOU WHAT,” John guffawed. “Oh bless yer fuckin’ soul. Bless it.”

Richard was sure John must’ve misheard. “What?? No, I’m _drawing_ him. Me students made me contribute me own portrait—”

“So you’re gonna skip out on _ice-cream supper with us_ to hang out with _him?”_

Okay, ice-cream _was_ tempting. A whole 30-flavour bowl was the perfect treat to top off such a good first week on the job. But now he wanted to get to the bottom of things. 

“It’s for a _project,_ me students will have me guts,” Richard defended himself. “Are you— are you not friends or somethin’?”

“What? Course we’re friends,” John headed right for the green light. “I jus’ think it’s really funny.”

“What’s really funny?”

“You’re jus’ so… _different,”_ John laughed as he said the word. “I know he _looks_ yer type, but he isn’t. It was ages before he’d even say a _word_ ta me.”

Richard sighed in something like frustration— and confusion. They were starting to look alike. So that was why John had congratulated him when George hadn’t bitten his head off on their first words. But then again, he didn’t even seem that rough of a person. Before he had hit the floor, the man he’d seen on that podium _looked_ full of grace. But was equally as graceful even when Richard had literally wrecked his chimes. He had smiled and listened to him prattle on how he liked drums. He had agreed to model for him. 

Surely it wouldn’t take _ages_ to get to know him better. Though Richard rather liked that mysterious air of George’s, he now certainly wasn’t going to tell John, who was now ranting dime a dozen about something he couldn’t quite hear. 

“....oi, did ye hear me?”

“Wha—”

“I said,” John paused to honk at the slow-moving car in front of them. “If ye can get him to come fer ice-cream I’ll foot it all.”

Oh, what a night. Richard felt surprisingly light yet dazed. The blue evening had turned into deep plum by the time they reached the school. John swore on seeing all the spots in the front carpark being taken up by the vehicles of the parents, and had to drive down the street to find a bay. At the same time Sean broke into a cry and Julian yelled that he needed the loo. 

“Jesus,” John grumbled. He parked across the school gate and with great difficultly unbuckled Sean from his seat. “Ritch, can ye take Jules?”

“Course,” he said, only to have Jules immediately take off running with him left behind. “Oi! Watch the traffic!” 

“Hurry up Uncle Ritchie!”

Richard ran before the cars at the turn could go in front of him. Jules jumped up and down exaggeratedly, his knees turned in and touching. 

“I dunno where the loo is.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take you,” Ritchie led him by the shoulders past the guardhouse and the basketball court. Prefects in ties greeted them as they walked past, as they did with passing parents dressed to the nines. Most of the women had their hair up and nearly all the men were wearing ties, which made Richard finger his opened collar in self-consciousness. Sure Abbey Road was posh, but working here hopefully excused him from it. 

They got to the canteen, the doors plastered with his snowflakes. Richard took Jules through the doors and came face to face with a throng of students dressed in black suits. Some of them stared up at his arrival, crumpling packet drinks or helping themselves to sandwiches. Richard looked back at them for a second and noticed, dear God, _George,_ half-staring at him from where he sat with a bunch of his students on a bench. Short dark lashes lined the bottom of his eyes like spikes. He leant back against the table with long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and his tie was slung around his own opened collar. From his unbuttoned cuff rose his slender hand with a slice of bread and cheese. 

“Uh, Uncle Ritchie?” Jules whispered, gesturing at himself. 

“Y’see that wall over there?” Richard said, not skipping a beat. “Behind it.”

Jules dashed for the wall, nearly ramming two black-suited boys emerging from it as well. Only after he had slid past them did Richard realise the loom of George right next to him. This time he startled properly. 

“Christ, you’re tall,” he blurted. 

“Really?” George said with a lick of amusement that pricked something in Richard’s ears. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Richard leant against the wall with a bashful chuckle. He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched the band members, he now realised, clearing away their dinner. 

“Didn’t realise you were so pally with John,” George bit off some of his sandwich. “That’s his boy, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, he’s visitin’. They got matching shirts an’ all.”

“Which reminds me why I’m so happy to be onstage fer once,” George said. Richard then resolved to make sure he sat on John’s left in the hall. The band members were now steadily heading for the door, the sound of it swinging back and forth loud in the almost desolate canteen. “Remember to rinse out yer mouths!” George yelled after his band. He checked his watch, grunted, then polished off the rest of his dinner before turning to the nearby drinking fountain and sipping from it speedily. 

“Hey,” Richard said, sure that a sandwich couldn’t at all be sufficient. “You’re free later, right?”

“I believe I’m makin’ my modelling debut, yeah,” George checked his watch again. “Your studio after ‘ception?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Really gotta get now,” George said, already rounding to the door. “See you, yeah?”

“Good luck!” Richard said. “But I jus’ wanted to ask—”

The band had all vacated the canteen. George turned the corner and once again the heavy doors clanged in and out. Jules then appeared from behind the bathroom wall, sighing in relief and with a strip of loo roll stuck to his shoe. Richard discreetly detached it as they made their way to the hall. 

Even with crowds of people inside, the newly renovated hall was an immense work of polished wood stage and upholstered seats. According to Brian and his many bulletins it was because of this new hall that the Winter Concert had been postponed a month from when it was usually held. 

Richard and Jules spent a good five minutes locating John, Sean wrapped in his arms, milling near the stage with a bird in a dark suit and laughing their arses off.

“Dad,” Jules called out. 

“Hey boy!” John passed Sean over to him. “Be a doll and get us some good seats, yeah?”

Richard realised then as the boys took off into the crowd that the bird next to John was in fact a _remarkably_ baby-faced man, standing taller than both him and John in his prim black suit and slacks. Not a hair was out of place on his head, and his eyes were framed by long dark lashes that made Richard look twice, good and proper.

“And Ritchie! This is Sir Macca,” he gestured to his friend with a flourish. “He teaches cursed languages.”

“Cursed languages?” Richard chuckled. 

“Odd name for Latin, really, but anywho,” Sir Macca said cheerily, and smacked John gently on the arm before extending his hand, to which Richard quickly averted from. Instead he sidled closer and awkwardly bumped his outstretched elbow with his, earning him a brief but affronted look. 

“And what d’you teach?” He said politely.

“Art. Me kids made all the flakes.”

“Oh, lovely!” and then he turned to John and laughed. _“This_ is who ye got to stomp out Pete?”

Pete Best had been the art teacher before him, Richard remembered, and had been uncivilly ousted last year when Brian came to tour his studio and discovered a website watermark on his framed Liverpool Arts degree. His spot in the staff room was barely cold when John presented Brian with a copy of Richard’s CV and a large pack of fruit gums. 

“Don’t worry, he’s a real deal.”

“Of course!” Macca smiled at Richard dazzlingly. “To ‘ave beat out all those others!”

Two student emcees appeared onstage shortly after, asking the guests to take their seats. Two rows at the front had been set aside specially for the faculty, and Jules had Sean in his lap at the very front, near the middle aisle. In a twist of fate Macca had obliviously walked in front of them all and taken the seat next to Jules, to which he was then _stupidly_ sandwiched by John swooping in on his left and tearing off his jacket. Richard barely stifled his laugh as Macca eyed his sides in puzzlement. 

The hall lights dimmed. The emcees then introduced Brian, who strode out from the wings to applause. 

“Good evening, parents and students! It is my great honour to welcome you all to Abbey Road’s Annual Winter Concert, and our newly refurbished hall.” Brian announced to a heap of applause. “We have a wonderful line-up of events tonight from our marvellously talented performing arts clubs. Our programmes are available at the table by the doors for your reference.”

John snickered beside Richard as he leafed through a long white-and-blue pamphlet. Richard leaned in to see where the band was on it, but even still it was dark where they sat.

“Without further ado, may I present our Drama Club and their performance of Capote’s short story, _The Thanksgiving Visitor.”_

Richard felt his guts drop even as he clapped. He loved plays a great deal, but it’d been doltish of him to assume the band were the only act tonight with the ceremony at this level, hadn’t it? 

Still the Drama Club were a delight. He watched with relish as the student actors argued over the prop Thanksgiving feast, hurling plastic turkey at each other. Next came the dance groups, which John and Macca heckled for their sugary song choices. After that still came the choir, accompanied by an older man on piano whom Richard recognised finally as John’s Mister Martin when he rose out of his seat to wolf-whistle at him.

Surreptitiously Richard checked his watch. A whole hour had passed where he sat bored and pooling in his seat. It didn’t help that the choir was now steadily lulling him to sleep with their soft voices. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, parents and students,” an emcee’s voice broke him from unconsciousness. “We will now have an intermission of fifteen minutes.”

John immediately dashed to the loo. Both Jules and Sean had fallen asleep in their seat. Macca sat next to them still, typing on his phone. 

“Hey,” Richard said, leaning over. “D’you have a programme?”

Macca shook his head, but then he grinned. 

“Don’t worry, band’s up next.”

Richard sat back in his seat all pins and needles. Oddly he felt that he was about to face his doom. The longest fifteen minutes ever took place, with him refreshing his Instagram and trying to remember if he had pencils or charcoal sticks in his studio for later. 

John barely ambled back in time when the emcees reappeared onstage. They announced the Junior Band repertoire, Grainger and Vaughan Williams and a medley of carols. For some reason unknown even to him, Richard clutched the armrests of his seat at this, and he heard John’s soft snigger from beside him. 

“May we present,” the emcees said in unison, “Abbey Road Junior Band.”

The curtains opened to applause, Richard included and all fired up. And then it enflamed and exploded. George stood dark and tall on his podium in front of the band, dressed in a FUCKING tuxedo. His hair fell over the sides of his face and touched his shoulders in gentle waves. His eyes were darker and stronger than ever, and Ringo thanked the gods that he was already seated, for right then he felt his kneecaps melt into jelly. 

George gave a deep bow as the applause ceased, and turned around. He lifted both arms and the band let out one large, sonorous chord that filled the room and masterfully reverberated stereo-sound in the new hall. Richard and a few others clapped. 

And then the band began to play. For all his solemnity George conducted them lightly through a hoppy tune with flying fingers, then a wind-heavy one with the horns doing the wailing he’d complained of that morning in the lounge. His movements turned swift and weighted, and for the first time Richard was utterly transfixed on something other than the music. He damn near jumped out of his seat and skin when the carols started; George leaned forward and Richard’s eyes fell on the lithe curve of his _bum_ where the tails of his jacket parted. 

There was no stopping the scream of his heart. He couldn’t be blamed for it, could he? George was doing what he did best in his best suit. There was nothing more hot. He remained enthralled as the audience applauded once again, still unable to feel his poor knees. George turned around and bowed, hint of a smile on him. 

John squeezed Richard’s hand playfully as the emcees returned. “To end off our concert, last but not least—”

“The Senior Band!” finished the other one. “They will be performing two movements from Johan de Meij’s Lord of the—”

The mic screeched then, and some audiences winced. George flinched for a moment, but stayed composed as he waited for them to finish. Behind him were stagehands changing the chairs and laying out some peculiar flat oriental harps on stands near the podium. Another two pushed out a bronze gong on wheels and a mallet hanging next to it on a hook. Chatters from the parents behind him commended these unfamiliar instruments. 

Once again the band was settled, all the older kids that Richard had seen yesterday. They too played that long chord before launching off spectacularly into a grand-style horn wail that now sounded like a procession in the very hall. 

George had grown emboldened by the strong start. With two quick tugs he’d loosened his cuffs most naturally before swinging into conducting the piece, his hair swaying from the blasts of the air-con. Richard dug into the back of his plush seat and held himself there, enchanted once more by him. Of course this was why the band came last. They were doing pure magic most of all. 

This all made Richard wish he were a drummer again. After the last chord was played, he jumped to his feet and slammed his hands together in applause when John hurriedly yanked him back down by the wrists. The band then embarked on another set of notes.

“They’re playin’ _two_ movements,” John reminded him in a whisper. “And ye don’t clap between them movements.”

Richard would’ve given the world to be sucked right into the floor. He barely heard the rest of the piece, through the red of his ears and through the Giroux piece that came next. It took the final piece starting before he could release some of his shame. Some girls took the seats behind the flat harps and placed their hands on it like a piano. 

He recognised the song. Everyone did; that old Tudor ditty the king had supposedly written for a wife he later beheaded. Now with these harps it sounded more heartsick and wrenching with the shrill, Eastern twine of the new strings. The hall went quiet with the majesty of the new instruments, George’s light moving, and even then the final hit of the gong sounded regal. 

The band received a standing ovation.

* * *

Well, they had pulled it off. Something about the concert aura always seemed to bring the bands to the top of their game. And the acoustics of the new hall? Good lord, George could have cried at the pure majesty of it. 

Instead of tears, his face was filled with joy as he exited the hall and was met already with congratulatory parents. Thanks to his high from the performance, he had no problem accepting their handshakes and sharing in the pride of what their children had accomplished. He happily greeted everyone on his path back to the band room where he packed up his bag and headed off to the reception. 

As he approached, he spotted more of the paper snowflakes that had been placed around the school. Silly little things, but George smiled, nonetheless. He couldn’t remember this much festivity for the Winter Concert in years past, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. 

George stepped into the room—and froze in the doorway. The little snowflakes in the hallways were nothing compared to this. 

The partition walls separating the school’s four art studios had been pushed open to create the reception space, just like in previous years. But the snowflakes, snowmen, and frosted pine cones were everywhere. Well, not _everywhere_ , he realized when he took a closer look. Most of the decorations were concentrated in the quadrant of the room George had entered from. The “Richard Starkey” name plate just outside the door didn’t surprise him at all. 

As George grabbed himself a cup of punch, he heard a bright laugh that he had become very familiar with over the past few days. He spotted Richard nearby, along with John, his kids, and...another teacher whose name had slipped his mind. Hopefully it wouldn’t come up, he thought as he wandered toward Richard. 

“Ye made it through the whole show,” George said, raising his glass in a toast. “Congrats.” 

John scoffed. “You’re welcome fer that. Good ol’ Rich would’ve made a fool of himself if I hadn’t saved his arse.” 

Richard muttered, “Shuddup,” as Jules snickered and echoed, “arse.” 

George decided to give Richard a break and not ask about it. Besides, John would probably fill him in later. “What’d ye think of the show?” 

“Are ye kidding??” Richard yelled, his whole face lighting up with his smile. “You were _brilliant!_ You looked so professional and intense and...flowy.” 

“...And the _band?_ ” 

A shit-eating grin appeared on John’s face as Richard flushed. “They were incredible,” Richard said. “Never woulda guessed they were so young.” 

John and the other man nodded in agreement. Jules gave an enthusiastic “they were so _loud!_ ” 

They kept chatting as the kids and their parents filtered in and out. Richard was the life of the conversation, except for the few times he slipped away for a moment. As soon as Richard saw the punch bowl running low, he rushed over to refill it, insisting that the parent volunteers sat back down and that it was no trouble at all for him. 

“Is it part of his job to help with tha’?” George whispered to John. 

“Doubt it. That’s jus’ what he does. He’s a great man, isn’t he?” 

George watched as Richard poured a student and his little sister a drink. “Yeah.” 

John wasn’t satisfied. “I mean, he’s a great _man_ ,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “ _Isn’t_ he?” 

George crossed his arms. “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.” 

“Oh, come _on_ , mate, he—” 

Sean chose this moment to drop his tiny stuffed turtle on the floor. He stared down at it, then wailed uncontrollably. 

“Oh, Jesus,” John muttered, rubbing poor Sean’s back and struggling to crouch down and grab it. 

His friend beat him to it. “Here ye go, lad,” he said, placing the turtle into Sean’s grabby hands and booping his nose. 

John smiled gratefully. “Say thanks to Uncle Macca.” _Macca_...Ah—McCartney, Paul. Finally, George had a name for him. 

Sean said “thank you” by slobbering all over the turtle. And by blowing out his nappy. 

“Well that’s just lovely, innit?” John said as Richard rejoined the group and wrinkled his nose. “Couldn’t have waited till we got home, could ye?” Jules was getting a bit restless, too, so John grabbed his shoulder. “I’m gonna get him cleaned up and head out. Meet us there when you’re done?” he said to Richard. 

“Definitely.” 

With a nod, John ushered his family off to the loo, with Paul joining for moral support. 

“Guess it’s just us now,” Richard said, smiling. 

George glanced around and noticed that the room had mostly cleared out. “Guess so.” He remembered what John had said. “D’you have somewhere to be? I don’t wanna keep ye, if you wanna hurry and get _this_ over with,” he said, gesturing to his face. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that! John and I are gettin’ ice cream later—and you’re invited, by the way.” 

“Oh, I don’t wanna intrude,” George said. 

“Not intrudin’ at all! ‘s alright if ye don’t wanna, though. John wasn’t sure you’d come.” 

George narrowed his eyes. “He said that, huh?” Like hell he was going to let John be right. “Ice cream sounds nice.” 

Richard smiled. “Knew I could count on ye. Now, let’s get this homework done.” 

When the last students had left, Richard dragged a chair next to his desk and told George to sit. He then flitted around the room gathering supplies and mumbling to himself. 

“Sorry,” Richard said sheepishly. “Still gettin’ settled in. Not sure where I left me charcoal...aha!” He grabbed a couple black sticks and set them on the desk. Once he slipped on his smock and set up his easel, he sat down and stared at George. 

George shifted uncomfortably. “Um...what d’you need me to do?” 

“First, I need ye to relax,” Richard said. “Yer shoulders are all tense and you’ve got yer hands latched onto yer knees like they’re gonna fall off. Just take a deep breath.” 

George obliged and let his hands fall limp into his lap. 

“Much better. Now, ye don’t have to stare straight at me. Focus on somethin’ over my shoulder. And think about the concert. Just forget I’m here.” 

Easier said than done. George tried to let his mind go, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to Richard. His face was screwed up in concentration as he marked a few preliminary lines onto the paper. Even the way he chewed his lip was full of intensity. If it weren’t for the reassuring smiles he occasionally shot George’s way, George hardly would have recognized him. 

Then suddenly, Richard stood up and stepped closer. “Jus’ gettin’ a better look at yer eyes.” 

George held his breath and tried not to move. Richard was still a meter away from him, but his gaze was so piercing that it felt much closer. He could see the ghost of each smile line imprinted in Richard’s cheeks and the rays of different shades of blue in his eyes. 

When Richard finally sat back down, George wasn’t sure if he looked more distracted than before or if it was in his head. Then his charcoal snapped as he pressed it against the paper, and they both jumped halfway out of their chairs. 

“Shit,” Richard said, grabbing the two halves and setting them on the desk. “Sorry.” 

“ ‘s fine,” George whispered, falling right back into his trance. He wished the easel wasn’t blocking Richard’s hands. He would love to see those hands at work, but he settled for catching a quick glimpse of his calloused, charcoal-smudged fingers each time he reached up to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, or reached down to swap the charcoal for his eraser— 

“Done.” 

“W-what?” 

“All done,” Richard said, wiping his hands on the smock. 

George looked at the clock in surprise. “Already??” 

Richard cocked his head. “ ‘s been forty-five minutes. Guess I couldn’t quite make thirty. Sorry.” He tapped his fingers on the easel. “Wanna see it?” 

“Sure.” George shook his head slightly to clear his mind, and he walked around to the other side of the easel—”Holy _shit_.” 

George couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There was no way that was him. It looked too good to be him. But those were undoubtedly his strong cheekbones and his dark eyes. The version of him on the paper, however, had hair that billowed out to the sides, making the shadowy shading on his face even more intense. He had a mouth with one corner curving slightly upward in a subtle but confident smirk. He looked _powerful_. 

“Ye don’t like it, do you?” Richard asked quietly. 

“I...I really look that good?” 

“I tried to capture how ye were tonight, onstage.” Richard pointed to the charcoal bow tie on the collar. “Ye really were brilliant.” 

George was stunned. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Can I get a copy of this?” 

“I’ll do ye one better. Once I show it to me students, you can have the original. I’ll even sign it if ye want.” 

Smiling, George nodded. “Thank you. This is jus’...thank you.” 

“Thank _you_ ,” Richard said. “You’re the one who did me a favor.” He removed his smock. “Now, I could really use some ice cream. What d’you say? Still in?” 

George looked at Richard’s sweet, hopeful face. “I’m _definitely_ in.” 

While Richard straightened out the studio, George hurried back to the music wing to finish locking up. Then, he waited for Richard at the building’s entrance. 

“I like yer scarf,” Richard said when he arrived. 

George pulled it tighter around his neck as they stepped out into the cold. “Thanks. My sister made it fer me. She’s crafty, I’m not.” 

“You make music. That’s a different kinda crafty.” Richard followed George toward his car. “Just you and yer sister then?” 

“Nah.” George hit the remote to unlock the doors, and they climbed inside. “Got two brothers, too. ’m the baby of the family, and they never let me forget it.” Out of habit, George cracked a window and grabbed a cigarette. “Oh—mind if I smoke?” 

“Not at all. I’d join ye, but I’m tryin’ to quit.” 

“Oh.” George froze with the lighter halfway to his mouth. 

“Really, I don’t mind. I’ll live vicariously through ye.” 

Didn’t seem like the best way to quit, but George lit his anyway. Richard pulled up his GPS app, and they set off. 

They ended up talking about their families all the way to Swensen’s—lots of Harrys between the two of them. The shop wasn’t too crowded, so they spotted John and Paul’s table quickly. 

“ _There_ you are,” John said, cheek resting in his hand. “We’ve been waitin’ ages.” 

George looked at where Jules was sloppily eating from his half-empty bowl of rocky road. “Doesn’t seem like you waited at all.” 

“The kid already sat through yer boring show, give ‘im a break.” 

George yanked off his scarf and dropped it on John’s head, hopefully whacking him in the eye. “Sod off, I was great and you know it.” 

John stuck out his tongue while bouncing Sean on his knee. A responsible father at work. 

Finally, the rest of them ordered their ice cream, and George sat between Richard and John with his caramel syrup-covered cone. 

“So, George,” John began with a grin, “how was yer _after-hours_ date with the teacher?” 

“You’re disgusting,” George said with a laugh and another bite of ice cream to cool his face. “And it was lovely. Brian picked a great man to fill Pete’s shoes.” 

“Ugh,” Paul groaned, “ _anyone_ would’ve been better than Pete Worst.” 

“You been holdin’ up alright so far?” John asked Richard. 

“Aw, yeah.” Richard smiled. “The kids are lovely. Seem like they’re happy to be in class.” 

“Damn,” Paul said. “Can I get some of those happy kids in my classroom?” 

“Maybe ye would if ye didn’t work ‘em half to death,” John teased, and Paul scowled. 

“What d’you teach?” George asked politely. 

Paul gave him an odd look before answering, “Latin,” and George wondered in alarm whether he had already asked him that at some point. 

John cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad you’re settling in well with the students. And the teachers.” 

After taking another sip of his vanilla shake, Richard hummed in agreement. “I can see why you all like workin’ here so much. Abbey Road’s got so much spirit—way more than me last school. I mean, this Winter Concert was just…” He made a mind-blown gesture with his hands. 

George was pretty sure half the spirit came from Richard himself, but he kept his mouth shut. “Ye think we have school spirit now? Jus’ wait till ye see the school festival.” 

“Oh?” Richard’s eyes lit up. “What happens at the festival?” 

“ _Evvverythinggg_.” 

“Do yer research, Ritchie,” John said. “Yer kids are gonna be makin’ something for the festival. Ya better get to work.” 

The light in Richard’s eyes went out. “How far behind am I? Me studio’s still a mess.” 

“Relax,” George said, patting his arm. “It’s still weeks away, you’ve got tons of time. And I know from experience that these kids are great at gettin’ their shit together at the last second.” 

“ _Ay!_ ” John jabbed a finger in Jules’ direction. “Watch yer fuckin’ language.” 

After a bit more talking and a lot more bickering, their cones were finished and their bowls and cups emptied. Combined with Sean’s sleepy fussing and Jules’ repeated “I’m boredddd,” it was definitely time to head out. 

“Good ta meet you, Richard,” Paul said as he ran off to his car. 

“Want a ride home?” George offered Richard. 

“He’d be better off with me,” John said. “He’s the opposite way from yer place. He’d hafta have a very specific reason to go with you over me.” 

“...Huh?” 

“Jus’ get in the car, Ritchie.” 

George waved goodbye as they piled into John’s car, then he cranked up the music as he sped off toward his flat. 

When he got home, his flatmate Eric was sprawled out on the sofa, one leg propped up on the headrest. “You’re home late,” he said, turning down the volume on the telly. “Did ye play fifty encores or somethin’?” 

“God, no.” George flung his shoes off, tossed his scarf and coat to the floor, and untucked his shirt. “Think tha’ woulda killed me.” 

“You can’t be too exhausted from this,” Eric said. “Isn’t the musical ‘bout to start up soon?” 

George groaned. 

“You signed up for this job, don’t take it out on me,” Eric said with a shrug. “What took you so long tonight?” 

“Went out fer ice cream with some mates.” 

“WHAT? And you didn’t invite me?” 

“If you don’t sit through the concert, you don’t get the reward.” 

Eric huffed as George plopped down beside him and shoved his legs away. “That’s not fair—ye know I had me date tonight.” 

“I know, I know. When am I gonna meet this mystery bird of yours anyways? It’s been over a month now. Ain’t ye getting serious yet?” 

“Get off my damn case, you’ll meet her when you meet her. Why d’you care so much?” 

“I don’t,” George teased, and Eric flipped him off. “But if you just introduce us, we could go on double dates again like we used to.” 

Eric perked up at that. “Double dates, eh? You seein’ someone finally?” 

“Wh—no.” 

“You _thinkin’_ about someone?” 

“ _No_.” George stalked off to his room to change into sweats and ignored Eric’s prying questions. All he was thinking about was getting out of this god damn tux. And possibly strangling Eric with his bow tie. 

And sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday night trickled to Sunday’s midnight, but Richard was still far from his bed. Once he had showered and changed and checked that his pooch Tiger had cleared his bowl, he carefully lifted the charcoal portrait from his bag, encased in a plastic file after he’d sprayed it. 

And he stared at it. He put it down on the table and still glanced at it every so often as he cooked himself a cup ramen. 

All artists deserved to be proud of their work, and the rollicking feeling of joy was in him again. But he’d done thousands of portraits, and this was _already_ his absolute favourite. He’d always been decent with charcoal, but this portrait of George looked as if he’d been a master of the medium forever. There were no accidental smudges and he’d captured the light on his hair and cheeks so perfectly—

or it was just that George was that beautiful. 

Richard lived for the moment he announced that he had finished someone’s portrait, the euphoria rising from when his work was shown to usual appraisal and steadied amazement. George had been no exception: except for the fact that Richard had twisted himself into knots awaiting his response. His eyes had skimmed his easel like people did at museums when they weren’t sure what to make of the art, but even then he was lovely. He wasn’t _that_ sharp. His smile softened his face and lit him up. In the car driving to Swensens as he laughed about his brothers and over his scoop of mint and caramel and as he smiled, _smiled_ at Richard and offered to drive him home. 

Without meaning to Richard’s hand came to his chest, a half-hearted attempt to clutch his heart and a near miss from knocking the ramen cup all over himself. He reflexively shoved the portrait to safety before thanking the gods that it was Sunday after all. 

It was a gloriously warm day indoors. Richard spent the whole of it binging Netflix in bed and spamming Facebook with pictures he’d taken in the hall last night. And at the reception. And at Swensens. _Perks of the new job ✌️🌟💖🎶🎨_ , he wrote for the post where he’d compiled his best pictures from the show in the hall. John caught up with him in the evening, contributing snaps of Jules and Sean stuffing themselves with ice-cream. And a selfie with Sir Macca (or _Paul_ as he was tagged) who had an unfortunate raspberry ripple stain on the side of his smile. Richard snickered as he sent him a friend request. He exited the app when it then struck him. 

Hesitating like he were a schoolboy with a crush instead of someone meant to be teaching them, he opened Facebook again and gingerly typed George’s name into the search bar. He sighed when yards and _yards_ of profiles appeared. Richard had scrolled mid-way through all the Harrisons when he had the damningly easy thought to scroll _John’s_ friends list for him instead. 

And as he typed in John’s name, a banner popped down from the top of his screen. His phone fell smack into his blanketed chest. 

George’s profile was easy yet impossible to miss— he had a bright violet fern for an avatar right next to his Abbey Road job title, which Richard suppressed a snort at. He accepted right away. Bravely he typed a _hi_ in the messenger box, sounded off with multiple emojis, and then proceeded to peek at all his posts.

Though there were barely any. Barely any that gave him a look into George’s life other than what he already knew, that was. He found a photo of a previous family Christmas, another natty scarf around him and flanked by two older lads who were probably his brothers. A professional shot from a concert and a time with shorter hair, his slender neck visible from where his back was turned to the camera. 

And many, many pictures of plants. Cactuses lined a table, succulents and pots of flowers spotted the windowsills and filled tiled floors. There was also an old photo of George grinning cheekily at a party; one arm around a smashed-looking bloke with a pop in his hand, the other around a pretty blonde girl in black knee-high boots. 

_damn you post everything_ , George’s reply showed up in a banner. _hi though_

_hiiiii whatre u up to_ 😁👋😁👋😁👋

_nothin. you?_

_ever heard of the good place_ 🍴

_yes??! i love that  
_ _you watched the whole show??_

_3 times and countin_ 😎😎😎

_no way_

_yeah way  
_ _jasons my boi_ 🧢

_oh ofc he is_

_maybe u wanna rewatch it tgt sum time?_ 😉

George went offline just as Richard sent it, throwing him off. But then he reappeared minutes later. 

_sorry went to wash my hands  
_ _this lil guy just arrived_

Attached was a photo of a _huge_ potted orchid towering next to a coffee table. 

_his name is flynn_

_sweet jesus you have room for that_ 😵😵😵

_lmao no  
_ _he’s goin to my office tmr  
_ _but anyway yeah, rewatch sounds good and all  
_ _tmr lunch good for you? ;)_

Richard dropped his phone again. He put it safely away before he jumped out of bed to celebrate his luck. 

What on earth _was_ his luck? Only his second week in and already he was rolling in the atmosphere of making a true living, friends, and seeing a beautiful man. And John had been wrong after all— the end of the week had arrived, and his heart was terrifically whole. 

Richard thought himself unstoppable. He packed his own lunch, ready for the lounge, and slid the carefully-kept portrait into a canvas folder should its plastic file get bent in his bag. For all his sunny mood Monday morning was then covered in a sheet of heavy snow, but Richard sang even as he hammered it off his car and made the trip to school. 

On Mondays all his classes were in the afternoon, and through the morning he busied himself drawing up his plans for the festival. Brian had graciously sent him details and links to where photos from previous years could be accessed for inspiration. 

_Now don’t worry if you don’t come up with it right away,_ he wrote in his email. _Proposals aren’t due until the end of the week. I expect you’d have no trouble outdoing Mr. Best at his game, but regardless please feel free to ask me or your fellow colleagues for assistance should you require it._

Richard skimmed through images of students running face-painting booths, hotdog stands, a haunted house and even an attraction of a humongous trampoline. To his utter surprise he found a video of John and Paul performing a bizarre version of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ as Thisbe and Pyramus. 

And then he noticed George, the Moon. He stood scowling near the wings of the old stage, sullenly watching the proceedings as he adjusted his nightcap and hitched up his prop of a toy puppy. Richard watched the whole video in hopes of catching his bit, but the Moon stayed far and tucked away near the reams of curtains, only visible if you looked closely enough.

If that didn’t sum up getting to know George, Richard didn’t know what did. He couldn’t really think of anything else beyond the random scribblings he’d already put into his notes, and so he took to cleaning up the leftover snow decor from Saturday night. 

Though he was so proud of it, he kept his own front door plastered with snowflakes and saved one snowman a new home on his shelf. Even better, lunch was in ten minutes. He gathered his sack lunch, trundled the rest of bits and bobs into a large plastic bag and booked it to the general office, whistling as he did. 

The office was as empty as could be, reception with their _Out to Lunch_ signs already atop the counter. Richard had only been here once for his interview, the next when Brian was giving him a tour. He had left instructions for locating a large closet to where the decorations could be stored to be reused, and when Richard turned the light on in it he found himself quite literally underground. 

He glimpsed racks and racks of costumes, from period affairs to crinkly aluminium space suits. Painted set pieces of fields and city skylines lay against the wall next to a painted wooden cake on wheels, and a vintage sewing machine with a pedal. And next to it, the unsightly plastic bags full of decorations. But because he was pressed for time, Richard promised himself to come back for a proper look some other day. 

As he climbed back up the stairs, he saw the entrance to the general office doors suddenly swing open. And then entering was George, in the flesh, leading a pudgy boy in by the hand. His uniform was bright with blood dripping from a bruised nose.

“My _God,”_ Richard gasped. “What happened?”

“Oh, it’s you,” George said, unfazed, handing the poor boy another tissue from the box on the reception. “Is the nurse around? Mrs Marsh?”

“Uh, I think everyone’s out to lunch…”

George sighed in annoyance. He made a sharp sit-down motion to his student as he got behind the reception and started punching numbers into the phone. The boy threw his head back against the office sofa with a pained hiss as the tissue quickly darkened with red. 

“No, lean forward,” Richard said, rushing over. “If ye keep back you could swallow yer blood.”

The boy gingerly bent his head down, elbows on his knees. Richard grabbed the Kleenex box and sat next to him, passing him new ones to stop the flow. 

“What’s yer name, lad? Can ye tell me what happened?”

“Yes _Anthony,_ tell Mister Starkey why yer bleedin’ all over him,” said George.

“I… I was running,” poor Anthony mumbled in shame. “Ran into the gong.”

“And what have I said ‘bout runnin’ in the band room, Anthony?”

“.................don’t.”

“That’s right,” George slammed the phone back down. _“What on_ earth _were ye thinkin’?”_

Richard felt chills shoot up his spine. Now he saw just how severe that scowl was; George glaring bladed _gauntlets_ into his student. Anthony shrunk shakily into Richard’s shoulder, on the verge of tears. “I’m s-sorry.”

“You better be! This will not happen again, clear?” George shouted. “What if the gong had fallen on _ye?_ D’you _want_ me ta ring up Mum an’ Dad an’ go _‘oh I‘m so dreadfully sorry, it seems yer son’s been flattened into pancakes?’_??

Richard pursed his lips. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or hand the poor boy another tissue. 

“No sir!” Anthony sobbed. “Please don’t call my mum!”

“Then what should I do ‘bout that _damned_ nose of youse?” George challenged almost mockingly as he picked up the phone again. “Ye sit yer arse on there and not move an _inch,_ ye hear me?” 

It took more than half an hour before George finally reached Mrs Marsh on the line, and a thankful minute for her to ditch her day off to come inspect the boy. Both Richard and George lent Anthony their hankies when they ran out of tissues, and Richard shared him half his lunch when his nosebleed eventually stopped. Mrs Marsh arrived five minutes before the end of lunch bell, scrubs hastily thrown over her heels and sundress. 

“I am so, so sorry about this,” she said sheepishly. “I thought I’d sent for my aide this morning.”

“It’s no problem,” Richard said, but George only groaned from where he’d slumped into the sofa. “We managed to stop the bleeding.”

“You sure have,” Mrs Marsh herded the boy into her sickbay. “Hold it, you’re that new teacher, aren’t you?”

“Yes ma’am, Richard Starkey.”

“What a name!” she said. “Thank you then, Mister Starkey. And to you too, Mister Harrison,” she added, with a touch of sudden cold in her voice. “How about you come in and wash up?”

* * *

Once George had washed the blood off his hands, he left the general office. So much for a relaxing lunch hour to make his miserable day better. Now he had to rush back to the band room and make sure the gong didn’t look like a crime scene—

“ ‘ey, wait up!” 

Frowning, George whirled around and found himself face to face with Richard’s eyes. They both stepped back in surprise before they smashed into each other. 

“Sorry,” Richard said. “I know our plans are ruined now, but I thought we could at least still chat fer a bit.” 

Ohhh, right. Thanks to the whole Anthony debacle, George had forgotten all about their Good Place rewatch session. “Damn kids,” George muttered. “Always messin’ shit up.” 

Richard gave him a worried look. “Are ye alright?” 

“Sure.” George continued walking toward the music wing. 

Sighing, Richard chased him again. “It’s jus’...ye were awfully harsh on Anthony back there. Is somethin’ bugging ye?” 

George was taken aback. He wasn’t sure what was more alarming: the fact that Richard was criticising the way he managed his students or the fact that this was the first time a coworker found harsh behavior unusual for him. “He broke the rules. I’m not gonna give him a pat on the back and a lolly.” 

“He was already bleedin’, George. Wasn’t he punished enough?” 

George ran a hand down his face. He supposed he may have been a _bit_ rough on him, but… “Ughhhhh, whatever. I jus’ want this day to end.” 

“So there _is_ something botherin’ ye,” Richard said too smugly, as though he thought he had George all figured out after a week. When they made it back to the band room—because apparently Richard thought it would be fun to tag along—George sat at his desk and Richard leaned against it. “What’s wrong?” 

“Ye don’t really wanna hear me bitch about this,” George said, glancing up at the clock as the bell to end lunch hour rang out. 

“I do.” 

“You’ll be late to yer class.” 

“I’m the teacher. I do what I want.” 

George couldn’t suppress his grin. “Fine. But shut the door so the kids don’t hear.” 

Once his office door was shut, George’s smile fell. “So, I was all ready to take Flynn in to work, had him all loaded into the car. And the car wouldn’t start. Tried it fer five minutes and was about to lose me damn mind when it finally turned on. But then a bunch of warning lights came on the dashboard and somethin’ didn’t smell right, and I _swear_ somethin’ under the hood made a popping noise. Thought I might die.” 

“Good lord,” Richard said, eyes wide. “How’d ye end up gettin’ here?” 

George shrugged. “Drove fast and hoped fer the best.” 

“You WHAT?? You still drove that thing?” 

“I made it here, didn’t I? Flynn and I are safe and sound,” George said, beaming at the orchid in its new home in the corner of his office. 

“So? Ye could’ve _died!_ ” 

“Don’t worry, I’m takin’ it to the shop. Ye aren’t gettin’ rid of me that easily.” 

“Good,” Richard said, but he didn’t look very comforted. “So, what ‘bout our lunchtime viewing party?” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Sounds like a plan. Now, don’t go lettin’ any more of yer students break their noses before then.” 

George scowled. Anthony’s nose wasn’t even hurt that badly...right? “They’ll be fine,” he promised. 

“They better. See ya tomorrow, George,” Richard said with a huge smile before he ducked out of the office and practically ran down the hallway with thirty seconds to make it to class. George shook his head. That would be a sight to see: Richard showing up to class all sweaty with his face flushed...He pushed the image from his mind, grabbed a small case next to his desk, and headed to the practice rooms. 

After the chaos of Junior Band before lunch, George was looking forward to one of the more relaxed parts of his job. Working with students one on one in private lessons was much less exhausting than attempting to keep dozens of teenagers under control. And although he tried not to be biased, George was quite proud of his clarinet players. 

Playing guitar was his main passion, but since that instrument was deemed inappropriate for concert band, he took up the clarinet at a young age. His clarinet had served him well over the years, getting him into a strong music program at University even when his grades hadn’t been the most impressive. He hoped he could help some of his own clarinet players achieve similar success. 

Today’s lesson was for a polite young lady named Martina. She was a beginner, only having played for half a year. Her technical skills were understandably lacking, but she more than made up for it with her eagerness. She was already in her seat in the practice room when George entered, and she gave him a bright, braces-covered smile. 

George greeted her warmly and asked her about her day as they put together their instruments. Already, his mood was improving. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that all his students loved him—he was very aware that wasn’t the case—but with the students he taught individually, it was a different story. They saw his softer side, the side that wasn’t in a constant fight to maintain order. 

Martina easily told him how her maths quiz went that morning as she lined up her reed and tightened her ligature. “What ‘bout you, Mister Harrison? Have you been having a nice day?” 

Giving her a smile that didn’t feel as forced as his smiles throughout the morning, he nodded. “Yes, it’s been just fine.” 

“Did you have fun with Mister Starkey?” 

George almost dropped the bell of his clarinet on the floor. “What?” 

“I saw him leavin’ the band room. Were you on a date?” 

George’s head spun. Had the news of last Friday’s cookie disaster spread that fast? “No,” he said sharply—then he took a breath to calm down. “No, definitely not. We’re not dating.” 

“But I heard—” 

“You heard wrong. You know how rumours can be.” 

Martina pouted for a moment, but she seemed to accept his explanation. George hurried to lead her in warm-ups and put that conversation behind them. If the rumour had already spread to members of the Junior Band, who knew how many people thought they were dating? At least tomorrow’s lunch would be in the teachers’ lounge away from the prying eyes of their students—

Oh god. Richard would be showing his students the portrait of him. He never should have agreed to that. “Stupid,” he muttered. At the sight of poor Martina’s terrified face, he reassured her that she was doing wonderfully and mentally berated himself for getting distracted again. He would just have to make it through the day thinking about Richard as little as possible. 

Luckily—or unluckily—his afternoon students were almost as chaotic as those from the morning, and he was hardly able to think about anything at all. Climbing into his possibly-about-to-explode car at the end of the day was actually a relief. 

George made it back to the flat without incident, until he explained the situation to Eric. Eric wasn’t too thrilled about having to be his chauffeur while the car was in the shop. Then George offered to cook dinner for a week, and Eric mysteriously became much more accommodating. 

While he waited for the water to boil, George checked Facebook...and found three new messages from Richard. George may have managed to push Richard from his mind during the day, but evidently the reverse wasn’t true. He pulled up the meme Richard had sent of a very fluffy cat. 

_saw this today  
_ _made me think of u_ 😎✌️ 

“God damn it.” George tried not to overanalyse the meme to figure out what vibes he’d been giving off for Richard to think of him when he saw it, and he fired off a quick _lol_ before focusing back on his cooking. 

He successfully distracted himself all the way until bedtime...when he lay in bed texting Richard for an hour straight. Oops. 

When morning came, Eric helped George get his car to the shop with minimal complaining. George climbed out of Eric’s car at school in much brighter spirits than the previous day. He even checked in with Anthony when they crossed paths in the hallway. Thankfully, his nose was now fine. 

Rehearsal went much more smoothly this morning, and George even found time to submit his festival proposal for a jazz band performance. Lunchtime was approaching quickly, so he called up his favourite restaurant to order some vegetable korma. It arrived a few minutes after lunch began, and after tipping the delivery person, he hurried off to the lounge where Richard was already waiting. With a laptop. 

“Thought it might be easier than squeezing in to see yer phone,” Richard said, pointing to the computer. 

George grinned appreciatively, though the thought of Richard leaning against his shoulder as they watched wasn’t entirely unappealing. “What episode are ye on?” 

“Season one. Jason jus’ told Eleanor he’s Jason.” 

“Hell yeah.” George sat down and opened up his containers of rice and korma. Beside him, Richard took a bite of a ham sandwich and hit play. 

Even while eating, Richard kept making comments on his favourite bits of the episode—and the other episodes. It was somewhat annoying at first, but George couldn’t help cracking up at the jokes he made. 

“See, I don’t know how he stayed silent for so long,” Richard said to the screen. “I woulda opened my mouth waaaay faster than him.” 

George covered his mouth and snorted. “Ya don’t say?” 

“ _Hey_ —I don’t talk _that_ much, do I?” 

George took another bite and shrugged. 

Richard sighed, then turned to face him. “Why’re ye eatin’ it like that?” 

Confused, George paused with the ball of rice in his hand just above the korma he was about to dip it in. “What d’ye mean?” 

“Y’know, like…” Richard mimed dipping the ball in the curry. “With yer hands.” 

“...Have ye never eaten at an Indian restaurant before? ‘s one of the traditional ways to eat it.” 

“Oh.” Richard looked nervously down at his sandwich. 

“You’ve really never had it before?” George set down his rice and slid the dish toward him. “Try some.” 

The wary look on Richard’s face surprised George. “Oh, I dunno…What’s in it?” 

“Veggies and curry.” 

“Well I know _that_ ,” Richard said with a laugh. “I just…” He fiddled with his hands. “I have a sensitive stomach.” 

“This one’s pretty mild, you should be fine.” 

“Does it have tomatoes?” 

George stared at him in shock. “You’re so picky ye won’t even have tomatoes?” 

“I’m allergic,” Richard said sharply. 

Damn, George needed to hold his tongue better. “No tomatoes, don’t worry. It’s a cream sauce.” 

“What about onions?” 

Good lord, how did this man eat anything? George dipped the tip of his finger in and tasted it. “I don’t think there’s onion,” he said, licking off the last bit. “How allergic are ye?” 

Richard’s gaze moved from George’s finger to his eyes. “If I jus’ try a little I’ll probably be fine.” He carefully took some rice and dipped it in the korma, barely getting any of it on the rice. Then he took a bite. 

“How is it?” 

Chewing, Richard nodded. “That actually tastes pretty good. I dunno why I’ve never—oh _fuck_.” He grabbed his water bottle and frantically chugged. 

“What happened?” George said, jumping out of his seat. If he just gave him an allergic reaction, he’d never forgive himself. 

“ _Ye said it wasn’t spicy_ ,” Richard yelled, fanning his mouth with his hands. 

“It _isn’t!_ ” 

“LIAR.” 

“For fuck’s sake.” George grabbed his bag and rushed to the door. “Wait here—and don’t drink more water!” 

He ignored Richard’s pained complaints as he ran to the canteen, forced his way to the front of the line, and bought a carton of milk from a very angry dinner lady. He hurried back to the lounge, where Richard was still drinking his damn water. 

“Here.” George slammed the milk down in front of him. “This’ll actually _help_.” 

After throwing the water bottle across the table, Richard tore open the carton and gulped it down. He groaned in relief. Then—”Were ye tryin’ to kill me??” 

“I didn’t think it was that spicy!” 

“Well, some of us don’t make a habit of killin’ our taste buds every day.” 

George sat back down and rubbed his hands over his face. Quietly, he said, “Are ye alright?” 

Richard took another swig. “Yeah. Thanks for the milk. How much do I owe ye?” 

“Don’t worry about it. Consider that my apology for ‘tryin’ to kill you.’” 

“Y’know, it would be a much more believable apology without the air quotes.” 

“Shuddup and drink yer milk.” 

* * *

The rest of the day (and lunch) thankfully proceeded without incident and milk runs. Though a burning sensation lingered in his mouth through the afternoon Richard was doing a fab job for his second week. The kids were so cute and eager and they all seemed to _enjoy_ his class, which warmed him a great deal. And his portrait of George had sealed the deal, earning him lots of awed whispers and _wows_ and a bunch of students begging him to teach them how to charcoal. Even the seniors had been impressed, taking their own prep board efforts to him for advice. 

“See, you need _this_ type of eraser,” Richard raised his yellow kneadable at the front of the class. “That way, even when ye smudge, you can smudge _right_ and turn it into somethin’ better!”

“Where’d you buy yours, sir?” asked Gilly. 

“I’m sure they have these in yer ol’ Tesco.”

“Oh,” she looked at the grubby blackened rubber on her paper. “Mister Best always said it was in how we _controlled_ the smudging, y’know.”

“Well he’s not wrong,” Richard shrugged. “But the right type of tool plays a part too. Now _this_ kind you can tear off, so it's easier for ye. I’m surprised he never told ya that, really.”

Gilly mumbled something under her breath as she morosely returned to her drawing. Richard wondered if he’d slipped somewhere when some of the boys opposite started to snicker. 

“Whatsamatter?”

“Take no notice of Gilly, sir,” a lad named Xavier said not-so-kindly. “She’s got a pash on Mister Best. Gutted when he left.”

“Oh,” Richard glanced at the poor girl, who was clutching her charcoal stick tight with her head down. “I’m very sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t be,” Xavier eyed all his mates mischievously. “He was a _fraud.”_

Nearly all the boys guffawed like animals. Trouble reeked off of it fast. 

“Alright, alright. As sorry as I am ‘bout Mister Best, ‘m sure he’d still want you all to focus on yer work,” Richard said diplomatically. “And I do, too. How’s ‘bout we all listen to some tunes?”

The whole class cheered. Richard spent the last hour relieved to his very bones, running around giving help and changing the playlist ever so often. He smiled at Gilly when she left, but she did not see him. He sighed as he finished cleaning up, and set for home. He’d forgotten all about Pete for a second— he assumed that he wouldn’t have to remember him. But apparently this was not the case. Of course there would be those who preferred him. And he had to think of a festival idea to outbid his before Friday arrived. 

Richard had to sit for a moment to collect himself. He breathed in and out as he packed up his stuff. He grabbed his sketchpad to put back, and thumbed a scribble of George’s face with a nightcap on. 

The lights clicked on in his head. He quickly composed a proposal to Brian, ran it through spellcheck and sent it. With his sketchpad in hand he hitched up his bag and made for the door, the setting sun sinking over the snow from the windows.

As he reached the front hall he nearly collided into a very surprised band director on his way to the gate.

“Someone’s got a spring in their step.”

“I jus’ submitted me festival ideas,” Richard said breathlessly. “Two of ‘em.”

_“Two?”_ George smirked. “Very ambitious of ye.”

“You wanna hear what they are?” 

“As long as it don’t involve any _barmy staff plays,”_ George said, grumbling the last words. 

“Ye mean like when you were the Moon?”

George made a choked noise. _“What?”_

“I uh— Brian sent me this old video of you an’ John an’ Sir Macca playin’ Pyramus and Thisbe at festival—”

“Oh my God. I’m gonna kill him.”

“I didn’t watch the whole thing,” Richard lied. And was unsure if it were the right thing to say after it left him. “You was mostly sulkin’ in the wings onscreen anyway.”

“How dare you. I’ve never sulked in my life,” George said sarcastically. But then he scoffed. _“God,_ that skit was such a hot mess. It was Pete Best’s idea, yeah, and no one understood it.”

Richard disliked the sudden whit of joy that wisped in his chest, but nodded. 

“ ‘m surprised ye even recognised it,” George adjusted his scarf. “You like Shakespeare?”

“I guess. Me best time in theatre was playin’ Hamlet on crack.”

“...theatre suits you.”

“Director said that too.”

George laughed again. But then he turned deadly serious. “So yer ideas…”

“No plays,” Richard said as they both stepped through the gates. “I was thinkin’ my kids could do an art show—“

The blast of a car horn jolted him. Across the gate stood a banged-up Ford with the driver’s window rolled down. A strangely familiar bloke in just a dark vest and no jacket was smoking out of it, and looked slyly at George as he lowered his tinted specs. 

“Hey dickhead,” he called.

“How long have ye been here?” George made his way over. “I thought you weren’t out till six.”

“Slow day.” Richard found himself traipsing towards the car as well. “Lookit what I snagged in the back though.”

Richard looked. A beautiful black Fender was propped in the backseat, buckled in like a baby. He felt even _his_ mouth water. 

“What the fuck. How much was that?” George gasped. 

“Calm your tits. Employee discount,” the bloke mimed zipping his lips. Then he noticed Richard staring. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Richard, he’s teachin’ art.”

“Hi Ritchie!” the bloke said brightly. Thankfully he didn’t proffer his hand, but instead gave Richard a friendly wave before bringing his cig to his lips. “ ‘m Eric.”

“Hi Eric,” said Richard, but Eric was already going miles a minute with George. 

“I hope yer ready for some elbow grease, cause I got us a whole chicken in the fridge when we get back.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Can ye blame me for already missin’ your _magnificent_ cooking?” Eric teased. _“Honey?”_

At that Richard felt his stomach drop. Just a little. George groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“Now get the fuck in so we can go home and eat!” Eric said excitedly. “I’ll let ya strum the Fender.”

George started laughing. He clapped Richard on the back as he rounded to sit in the front. It was only when Eric removed his specs to clean them on his vest did Richard recognise him. The bloke from the party. Though sober (he hoped), Eric still looked slightly smashed. 

“We still on for tomorrow’s Good Place?” 

“Um, sure!”

“Cool. Seeya then.”

“Buh-bye Ritchie!” Eric shouted though Richard was nary a foot from his car. Eric flung his cigarette in the snow and sped off, leaving Richard blinking in the dust. And a hairline fracture cracking slowly in his heart. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for comic sans bashing. as an actual student artist, rufus must assert that while truly awful on posters meant to be appealing to the eye, rufus loves comic sans and writes all her fics, including this one, in that very font. rufus loves comic sans!
> 
> but not on posters. please.

The car jerked forward as Eric stepped on the gas. George’s head banged back against the seat, and he wondered whether he’d be better off in his busted-up car than with Eric behind the wheel. Speaking of which… 

“Got the call from the shop,” George yelled over the music. “My car’s ready to be picked up.” 

Eric groaned as he flipped his turn signal to the opposite side. “You better cook a damn good chicken to make up for all this trouble.” 

“The shop’s hardly five minutes away, ya big baby,” George said, rolling his eyes. “An’ I told ye I’m tryin’ to cut back on meat. Why’d ye buy a whole fuckin’ chicken?” 

“I’ve been craving chicken.” 

George grumbled a few choice words to himself. As much as he loved Eric, he could be a real dick sometimes. 

“So,” Eric said as he accelerated through a yellow light, “who’s that Richard fella? Haven’t seen him with you before.” 

“New teacher. He’s been hangin’ around a lot.” 

“I’ll say. He’s got ye watching shows with him? How’d he sucker you into a Netflix and chill date?” 

George sputtered. “It’s not a  _ date _ .” 

Eric shot him a  _ no shit _ look. “I’m just kidding around, relax.” Then he looked over at George again. George looked out the window. “Oh. My. God. It  _ is _ a date, isn’t it?” 

“No!” 

“But you wish it was. Don’t think ye can get this past me, mate, I know that look. He’s the one who was getting you all flustered after yer concert, isn’t he?” 

“I was  _ not _ flustered. And stay outta my damn business.” 

“Oh come on, George.” Eric made a sharp left onto a side street. “This is good for ye. You’ve been hung up on Pattie for way too long. It’s good you’re moving on.” 

It had been months since they’d split up, but George’s heart still ached when Eric said her name. “ ‘m not hung up on her, it was just a rough break-up.” 

“Mm-hm,” Eric said, side-eyeing George as he pulled into the car park. “Just  _ consider _ asking him out. What’s the harm?” 

“We’re colleagues. It could cause lots of harm.” 

Eric smirked. “So ye  _ do _ like him.” 

“No!” George slammed the door on his way up to the shop to reclaim his baby. He blasted the music  _ loud _ on his way home. 

Eric resumed pestering him while he prepped the chicken, but he shut up fast when George threatened to squirt hot grease in his eyes. The chicken turned out delicious unfortunately, making George question why he was trying to cut meat out of his diet. 

After dinner, George retired to his room to brainstorm pieces the jazz band could play for the school festival, but his mind kept wandering to the memories that Eric had dug up. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to think about Pattie. 

The break-up had completely blindsided him. He’d been so desperately in love, even fantasising about getting married. When she dumped him...he fell apart. Took a week off of work pretending to have the flu. Didn’t want to leave his room even to eat. 

Biting his lip, George opened Facebook and pulled up Pattie’s profile. His chest clenched at the sight of her sweet smile in her profile picture—where a photo of the two of them used to be. He wasn’t in love with her anymore, that much he knew. But was he really ready to put himself in a position to have his heart broken all over again? 

He kept scrolling through picture after picture of Pattie and her friends. She looked perfectly happy, because  _ of course _ she did. Just had to rub it in his face how much easier it was for her. 

When he scrolled back far enough to see the photos with him, he closed the app and buried his head in his hands. Pattie had been so sweet, so kind to him. How was he supposed to know whether someone’s kindness would last? 

His phone buzzed. Richard. George reached for it, but hesitated. Was he really in the mood to talk? He debated for a few minutes, giving Richard enough time to message again, his bright, smiling face beaming at him from the notification. 

“Fuck.” 

George set his phone to silent and went to bed. 

A good night’s sleep cleared his mind a little, but the ghost of his relationship still haunted his thoughts. At least rehearsals helped him clear his mind. 

Jazz rehearsal in particular went quite well. George always looked forward to their Monday and Wednesday after-school practice sessions, due in large part to the presence of guitars. George himself didn’t get to play them, of course, but when the band got in the groove, he was in heaven. He brought in a few new pieces for them to test out for the festival, and the kids seemed excited about them. Even their drummer, Robin, who struggled to keep up with one of the songs, was enjoying themself. 

Lunch, on the other hand, was tense. George wasn’t sure if it was his lingering pain over Pattie that was throwing off their Netflix groove, or if something was going on in Richard’s life. Whatever the reason, Richard was drastically less talkative than before. 

Friday, when the awkwardness still prevailed, George resolved to ask him about it. But Richard spoke before George could. 

“That Eric fella seems nice.” 

George shot him a strange look. Where on earth had that come from? “‘Nice’ is a generous way of puttin’ it. I still love ‘im, though.” 

Richard stared down at his salad. “How long’ve you two been...livin’ together?” 

“Oh god, too long,” George said with a laugh. “Four, five years, I think? Before that I was on my own. The solitude was nice, but it got a bit lonely, y’know? It’s nice havin’ him around.” 

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Feels good ta be with someone. Does he work with guitars?” 

“Mm-hm. Started off workin’ part-time at a little guitar shop, worked his way up, and when the last guy retired he turned the shop over to Eric. That place is his pride an’ joy—and I’m proud of him, too.” 

“Well, he sounds like the total package,” Richard muttered, shoving a forkful into his mouth. 

“Um, I guess so,” George said quietly. He took a swig from his water bottle as he tried to figure out why Richard was getting all worked up. 

“So...you’ve been together an awful long time,” Richard said. “Are ye thinkin’ of tying the knot?” 

George choked on his water. “WHAT?” He laughed so hard his eyes watered and he almost fell out of his chair. “He’s me fucking  _ flatmate _ , not my boyfriend,” he wheezed. Still laughing, George wiped his face dry. “Ye actually thought I was with  _ him?? _ ” 

Richard’s face turned bright red. “B-but he called you honey.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause he knows it pisses me off and his favourite hobby is annoying me.” 

“So you’re not dating?” 

“ _ Fuck no! _ God, I think I’d rather die,” George said before succumbing to another bout of laughter. “Definitely not dating Eric. Never have, never will. Not dating  _ anyone _ at the moment,” George blurted before he realised what he was saying. 

It could have been George’s imagination, but he swore he saw a spark of something appear in Richard’s eyes. “Hm. I’m single, too,” Richard said. 

For a terrifying moment their eyes locked on each other. George felt a growing urge to get up and run somewhere where the spark couldn’t catch him on fire, but he was frozen. Richard opened his mouth, and George couldn’t breathe. “D’you think...sometime I could—” 

“I love this episode.” 

With his mouth still hanging open, Richard stared at him. “Huh?” 

“The Good Place. It’s a good one.” George pointed to the long forgotten show still rolling on the screen. He didn’t even remember which episode it was. 

Richard gave him a weak smile. “But they’re all good ones.” 

“Course they are. Jeremy Bearimy, baby.” 

Finally, Richard gave him a real laugh, and George hoped that just maybe, things would go back to normal. 

-

On Friday Richard started his afternoon classes a much happier man. Not only were George and Eric  _ not _ the long-loving couple he’d feared for three torturous days, but Brian had also responded to his proposal. 

And he’d accepted  _ both.  _

_ Not only are both ideas fresh and original, I especially love the idea of an art show. It’s a brilliant idea to show off the diverse talents of your students and unwaveringly fair to all. Please have your studio prepped for the show on the morning of the 6th, you may enlist the help of your students or your colleagues.  _

_ Now for a personal note, I had no doubt that you could do it! Setting up your caricature booth outside is also a good choice, letting both students and the public walk away with something like a souvenir. I look forward to seeing you in action, Richard. Good luck! _

Nothing could bring Richard down from cloud nine. His first class of juniors were beside themselves after he relayed them the good news, with instructions for them to get cracking. He spent the period busy as a bee again, rushing around with pencils and paper and the occasional book to provide guidance. Richard felt he was very lucky indeed— because only  _ five _ proposals had survived Brian’s axe. 

John had added him to a school-wide group chat on Tuesday, one where Brian had been meticulously excluded. The chat exploded on his phone through the rest of the day, frantic and self-deprecating. 

Richard scrolled up and down to keep track of everything. The PE dept’s push for an obstacle race had been fumbled. The maths dept’s motion for a pop-up Mathletes had been deemed too difficult. The chemistry dept’s motion to teach the science of yoghurt was overruled, complete with a copy of the budget. And though Brian had thought it a wonderful healthy alternative, he’d already given the green light to some students selling ice-cream. And John’s own lodge for limerick readings had been jossed. 

_ whats wrong with limericks tho,  _ Richard typed in a PM. John spent ages and ages composing his reply, but in the end he sent:

_ somethin to do with being fuckin difficult thats what _

_ but anyway _

_ congrats on BOTH ur ideas surviving eppy ritchieeeee  _ 🎉🎉🎉 

Richard was surprised. News certainly travelled fast. 

_ wow howd you know _ 😯

_ brian, duh _

_ what shining examples _

John then attached a screenshot of an email. He’d cropped out his conversation with Brian above, but left his point intact. Brian had included a tally of the faculty’s sacred five:

There was a fake news quiz from the school newspaper. Sir Macca and Mister Lewisohn of the History department were running a duck pond. Richard. Old Miss Rachel from housecraft was making candyfloss. And George’s jazz band would perform in the hall. 

_ a match made in heaven _ , John typed.  _ get ready! _

_ oh believe me i alr started.  _ 😎✌️

_ no _

_ get ~ready~ _

Richard only found out what he meant next Monday. He awoke to his school inbox positively flooded with mail. He had to restrain himself from trying to read them all as he heated up the baked beans for his breakfast. 

_ Dear Mr. Starkey, I would like to request your help in designing the poster for our booth. _

Richard had put the group chat on mute so he could text undisturbed with George during the weekend. In two days a slew of new proposals had worked their way to Brian’s approval, and now a whopping  _ thirty-three  _ attractions were confirmed to stand ground on festival day. The majority had now found him and were asking for his services, some including lists and references of what they had in mind. Richard covered Tiger with a blanket and sped off to school with his laptop power cord dangling out of his bag. The morning was positively  _ filled.  _

He sent mock-up after mock-up, colour schemes and variations. Though it was nice to be needed, he was starting to burn out near lunch. Nothing sounded better than an hour of Netflix and egg sandwiches and George after all his work. He hit save for his draft of Miss Rachel’s candyfloss flyer and gathered up his food. As he threw the studio door open he came face to face with, speak of the devil, George. 

“Whuh,” Richard blurted, bushwacked by his beauty. He jolted in place and caught his balance sharp on the edge of the door. And against George’s cold fingers, dug above his elbow. 

“Hi,” he said, slowly removing his hand. “You got a minute?”

Though he knew the exact time Richard stole a glance at the clock. “Sure I do.”

“Actually, uh, it might take longer than tha’,” George noisily crumpled the thin paper sheet in his fist, and cursed at the damage. “Much longer.”

“That mean we gotta call off The Good Place?” 

“Depends, how long d’you think it’ll take fer someone to learn somethin’ like… like Photoshop?”

“What?” Richard chuckled.  _ “Years!” _

When George’s face fell he realised that  _ someone _ was probably him. “Basics’ usually quite easy though,” Richard added. “What d’you wanna make?”

“A better version of this.”

George then uncrumpled the _fugliest_ poster Richard had ever set his eyes on. The background was vomit green. The font was neon orange AND Comic Sans. Framed as a border was a blatant copypaste of acid waves with clip art of guitars and trumpets scattered at random.

But the worst offender was that it was hardly even a  _ poster.  _ Richard screwed up his eyes deciphering the tangerine type.

“Uhhhh.”

“Scratch that, somethin’ totally  _ different  _ from this,” George re-crumpled the paper in disgust. “But  _ I _ wanna make it, so I need yer advice—”

“I’d be glad ta help!”

“Oh, thank _God.”_

George tossed his abomination of a poster into the bin. And as Richard set up his laptop again he noticed that George had set a full tin of curry next to them on the desk.

“You sure ye don’t wanna have lunch first?” Richard asked. 

“No, tha’s fine,” George said rather distractedly. He sat himself right down in Richard’s chair and took his mouse. “What do I do?”

“First ye click _ Create New,”  _ Richard pointed to the icon. “And select a preset for the poster. Make sure you get the dimensions you want and that the DPI is set to three hundred.”

“The DPwhat?”

“Sorry, the resolution,” Richard tapped against the screen. 

George huffed. “Right.”

But all went swimmingly. George stayed perfectly pleasant as Richard showed him how to use the colour bar, the eyedropper, layer styles, and after some more guidance he had picked up the hotkeys. Richard had even managed to coax him out of using clip art, but they came to a halt when he suggested modifying the assets on his behalf. 

“It's so it’ll look… better,” Richard tried. George still looked at him reproachfully. “I mean… ya don’t want it to look kinda slap-up, do ye?”

“No,” George sighed, and glanced at the clock. They marvellously had over half an hour left. “Why don’t ye jus’ teach me.” He smirked.  _ “Sir.” _

OH SHIT FUCKING HELL TIT BALLS. 

“Ohhhkay,” Richard said, clutching the back of his chair should he suddenly lose consciousness. He fought to stay focused on the screen. “Go to… go to Pixabay or somethin’.”

Maybe it was just that his heart was now hammering like a drum, but he hardly heard a peep out of George as he searched for pictures to use. He seemed to scrunch up into himself every time Richard moved or shifted his weight behind the chair. 

Perhaps it was a sign. For all the artistic symbolism Richard taught for his syllabus, he was having trouble comprehending the things life was throwing at him lately. He’d dropped the matter of going out together quick after George had so clearly dodged him last week, but what was  _ this, _ now? 

George stayed as silent as stone, his bottom lip tucked into his mouth in concentration. Richard left to take a drink of water, and came back behind the chair to George rapidly hitting the Quick Selection at random points upon a picture of a trumpet. 

“Oh no, you can jus’ slide it—”

George gasped. That much he knew. The dotted lines onscreen steadily took shape, following the motions of Richard’s hand— that was now right atop of George’s bony one. 

His hand was still cold. But only then did Richard remember all his rings. His icy,  _ icy _ metal rings.

“There we go,” he said. 

George paused for a moment. “Don’t those bother ye?”

“What bothers me?”

“Your… yer rings,” George gestured to the hand Richard was now hiding behind his back, as if he could erase the touch by doing so. “How d’you draw with those?” 

“I, uh, do the same thing you do,” said Richard. “Years of practice.” And this seemed to satisfy him, for he turned back to continue working. 

Five minutes before the lunch bell rang they were both wolfing down their food at the students’ tables. Richard tried not to stare in horror as George lifted his curry tin to his lips and started  _ slurping _ it up as easily as if it were water. Behind them on the laptop sat a new, darkly elegant violet poster composed of artfully placed circles, each odd one containing a carefully integrated jazz instrument. The font also matched this time, and was _readable._

“Did you hear John’s runnin’ a used book swap,” George said when his tin was nearly clean. 

“I got his email, yeah.”

“Did he ask ye to do his poster too?” 

Richard nodded. “An’ he wants it to look like that famous cover of _Great_ _Gatsby.”_

“Oh,” George wiped his mouth as he glanced at the laptop on the desk. “I’ve only seen the movie…”

“Me too.”

“The one with Leo DiCaprio?”

“Course, wouldn’t ‘ave gone fer it otherwise!” Richard laughed. “Prefered him as Romeo though.”

“Same.”

Richard beamed. It was wonderful to be talking like such good friends again. He could even look past the mini-heart attack George had given him. After all he’d just been teasing, he wasn’t really going to call him—

_ “Sir?”  _

George and Richard spun around sharpish. Richard’s _entire_ afternoon class of seniors were standing right outside the open studio doors. Their eyes were wide and their mouths fell agape, but all of them were deadly, deadly silent. 

And then the giggling started. 

“Uh,” Richard squeaked, unsure if he was talking to George or his students, “Gimme five minutes, would ye?”

-

After frantically scarfing down the rest of his curry, George booked it out of there, ignoring the very loud whispers from the students as he passed. He just  _ had _ to make that wildly inappropriate  _ sir _ joke earlier, and now this? He couldn’t wait for the day to be over. 

With the band hall a safe distance away from the art studios, he had a decent safety buffer from whatever gossip the students were spreading. How long the buffer would last was questionable. At least he had successfully conquered Photoshop and the file with his poster was in his email inbox, sent from Richard along with a smiley face in the signature. 

Having the poster design finished so early was a relief. But a short-lived relief. Every year, George hoped that if he stayed on top of his festival planning, he’d save himself some time later on. Every year, he was proved wrong. The message spam in the staff group chat was awful enough, and the numerous email chains from Brian didn’t help.  _ Especially _ when some of his colleagues still didn’t know the difference between “reply” and “reply all.” 

The chaos of musical planning didn’t help either. Even though George’s role was only to lead the musicians, the theatre department insisted on including him in their wild debates over which show to put on. 

_ What about Rent?  _

_ We did that just 5 years ago.  _

_ Wicked?  _

_ With the puny budget we have leftover after the renovations? Good luck.  _

Each new email swiftly found its way into George’s trash folder. He had more important things to take care of. 

Like his jazz band. The kids were excited—and nervous—to be heard by a wider audience than their typical jazz-savvy crowd. And their nerves only seemed to get higher as the festival grew closer. Alex, the lead trumpet, kept dropping his plunger mute. Miki’s saxophone reed kept squeaking. Robin looked like they were about to be ill and topple into the cymbals. 

And Natalie, who was still convinced that George and Richard were an item, was regretting volunteering for the trombone solo. “I’m no good at improv,” she quietly confided to George after they finished rehearsing one day. 

“Now, that’s not true. I wouldn’t’ve let ye in the band if I thought you were bad.” 

“I guess,” she muttered. 

George glanced at the clock. “You got a parent waitin’ outside for you?” 

Natalie’s eyes went wide. “Oh—sorry, I’ll let you pack up and stuff—” 

“No!” George sighed. “I meant, if you’ve got a few minutes, we can work on some improv techniques right now.” 

She brightened right up at that. After a quick text to her dad, she pulled her trombone back out. George grabbed his guitar to accompany her. They ran through the chord progression a few times before George cut her off. 

“You’ve got a great ear for the notes,” George said. “You’re jus’ tryin’ to play too many of them. Keep it simple, and use silences, too.” 

“Silences?” 

“Mm-hm.” 

“...How?” 

“Y’know, like…” George breezed through a quick solo himself. When he was done, Natalie stared at him, stunned. 

“How’d you do that so easily??” 

George laughed and crossed his legs. “Years an’ years of practice.” 

“You should jus’ play it instead of me—you’re  _ so good! _ ” 

“Oh, no,” George said, shrugging it off. “I’m not gonna make ye listen to any cranky old teachers playin’ during the show. Now c’mon, you try it again.” 

A few more attempts, and Natalie was already sounding a lot better. Her confidence was much higher as well. She left the band hall that day with a huge smile on her face. 

George was smiling as well, until he got home to Eric. The teasing had lightened up a bit over the past few weeks, but Eric still found a way to slip Richard’s name into the conversation at least once a day. Eric practically wanted George to get over his ex more than  _ George _ did. And the more Eric tried to rush him, the more George wanted to wait out of spite. 

Of course, George’s resolve cracked a little more each time he saw Richard. The Friday before the festival threatened to break him completely. 

“How many chairs d’you need?” Richard asked as the two of them scurried around the band room. Richard had set up his art studio earlier with the help of his students, and he decided to offer his aid to the other teachers. Well,  _ teacher _ . 

“Ten,” George said, wheeling the chair rack toward him. “You’re  _ sure _ ye don’t mind helping?” 

Richard narrowed his eyes as he stacked two chairs on the rack. “For the last time, no! Got nothin’ else to do. And besides, ‘s fun talkin’ to ye.” 

Another crack in the wall around George’s heart. Damn it. “Not supposed to be talkin’, we’re workin’.” 

Richard crossed his arms. “No talkin’ at all?” 

Despite himself, George smirked. “Nope.” 

“Alright.” Richard mimed zipping his lips and continued stacking. 

When the chairs were loaded, George asked, “Can ye get the cart? I’ll grab the amps.” 

With his lips locked tight, Richard gave him a thumbs-up. 

“Oh come on, I didn’t mean  _ never _ talk.” 

Richard shrugged and grinned widely. 

“Fuckin’ dork,” George muttered as he lugged the amps toward the door to bring them backstage in the hall. Behind him, Richard laughed out loud—before quickly stifling it to a snort. As the afternoon progressed with lots of smirks, head tilts, and winks from Richard, George rapidly found himself missing his voice. For multiple reasons. 

When the morning arrived, George rose early. He could have slept in since his band’s slot for the performance hall wasn’t until noon, but he wanted to check out what his colleagues had put together. And Brian wouldn’t have been too thrilled with him if he showed up at 11:59 with bedhead and still yawning. 

His first stop was John’s classroom. George had brought two books of his own for the swap, and he took his time browsing until he came across a fascinating novel and a gardening book. He thanked John for the best idea the festival’s ever seen before heading over to get himself some candyfloss. 

But his enjoyment of the treat was cut short. “Mister Harrison!” 

He turned to see Natalie running toward him, with a couple other band members behind her. “Mister Harrison, Robin’s sick.” 

“Oh, lord...are they in the restroom? Do I need to find the nurse?” 

“No, they’re at home. Too sick ta get out of bed.” Natalie’s eyes were wide in fear. “What do we do?” 

George ran his hands over his face. The hell were they supposed to do without a drummer? This was exactly why he tried to have two drummers in the jazz band. But with the way the numbers of auditionees had been decreasing over the past few years, he didn’t have much of a choice. A few of the other percussionists knew how to play a drum set, but not on such short notice. How on earth would he find someone within the next hour who would actually be able to play the songs? 

George froze. Oh no. He  _ couldn’t _ . The spread of the rumours would skyrocket. 

But did he really have a choice? 

Before he could chicken out, George strode down the hall. 

“Wait—Mister Harrison—what’re we gonna do?” 

He spun back toward Natalie and swallowed his pride. “We’re gonna find Mister Starkey.” 


End file.
